


I Don't Hold Her Hand

by KelseaGrumbles



Series: Holding Hands with Bryce Lahela [2]
Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, POV First Person, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseaGrumbles/pseuds/KelseaGrumbles
Summary: I, uh, was waking up from a nap when inspiration struck to write a follow up to my fic “He Doesn’t Hold My Hand." This is in Bryce’s POV and I really hope I didn’t write him too out of character. I know deep down he is a sensitive boy and I would love to see that side of him more. I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Bryce Lahela/Main Character (Open Heart)
Series: Holding Hands with Bryce Lahela [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962976
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	I Don't Hold Her Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh, was waking up from a nap when inspiration struck to write a follow up to my fic “He Doesn’t Hold My Hand." This is in Bryce’s POV and I really hope I didn’t write him too out of character. I know deep down he is a sensitive boy and I would love to see that side of him more. I hope you enjoy!

I don’t hold Casey’s hand.

It means I’m not perfect and I hate myself for it.

In the beginning I tried. Her skin was always so soft and smooth, fingers straight and narrow as they wrapped around mine. We would stay like that for a minute or two, but then came the excuses.

“Oh hey, look at that,” I would say, swiftly untangling my fingers from hers to point at whatever distraction laid ahead of us. My other hand would always be empty, perfectly capable of carrying out the ‘pointing duties.’ But she wouldn’t question it and there would be a silent sigh of relief on my end.

Or sometimes when we’re walking down the sidewalk or in the mall, hands clasped together so tight I wanted to scream - of joy or fear, I wasn’t sure. So I would stealthily use one foot to pull on the laces of my shoe to quickly untie them. “Oops, one sec.” And as I pulled away to lean down and tie them back I would internally curse at myself as the warmth of her hand left mine. And unlike my shoes, we wouldn’t lace our fingers back afterwards.

Surgery was an easy main excuse. It was reliable and somehow I believed it myself. 

Then eventually we just, sorta, stopped.

I think something is wrong with me. For all the confidence and bravado, I still have my flaws. I’m a big enough person to admit that.

I think about it a lot. Maybe it’s from the lack of a loving home and childhood - where acting a certain way was the only way. Maybe it’s because of the handful of relationships that I had that always seemed to end in failure. Maybe it’s because I was always told to do better. To _be_ better.

But one thing is for sure, I _know_ it’s not Casey’s fault. Casey is different. Casey is rare and kind. She is soft where I am rigid and sweet when I feel sour. She deserves everything where I have nothing to give.

Except love.

Somehow, with all my flaws and my past, I somehow still know love. It’s like I have been training for it everyday for when I would meet the right person or situation. When I would meet _her_.

I try to show it when I send her a text before and after her shifts. “I love you, hope you’re having a good day.” Sometimes I set an alarm, so even if it’s the dead of night or the crack of dawn, after she’s worked countless hours and cared for grueling patients, she knows that she’s the only person on my mind.

Or when we order take out - milkshakes, burgers and fries. We sit on the couch and watch whatever crime drama/medical mystery/cooking show that she puts on. And I know her favorite shake flavor is strawberry but for some unknown reason she always asks for chocolate. So I get strawberry because I know five minutes into our meal she’s going to look at me with those adorable, puppy-dog eyes and without a word I’ll slide my milkshake over to her. “You know me so well,” she would say with a chaste kiss to my cheek before taking a sip of my - her - shake. It’s okay, though, I’ve never been a huge strawberry fan… until it’s on her tongue - then I can’t get enough.

Then sometimes it’s when we’re at the hospital and she’s pulling me into whatever empty supply closet or on-call room that’s around. There’s only 10 minutes until one of us is going to have to leave. “Let’s make this quick,” she would say between sloppy kisses and wanton moans. And as I pour everything I can into those few moments, I would wish for more. More time. More privacy. More moments like this. More of her.

“I love you, Casey. God I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” she’d sigh into my lips. “Don’t stop.”

As if I could ever stop loving her.

And when we would get those moments. Alone in her bed or mine. It would be dark, the sun since long set below the Boston skyline. And we’d be tangled in the sheets, my hand running down her delicate back. Her soft snores - “I don’t snore.” “Yes you do, babe.” - the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. And as I look down at the most amazing person I have ever met, I would wonder how I got so lucky to be hers.

And then for a moment - just a moment - I would intertwine her hand in mine.

Casey teaches me to love not only her, but myself. With her strong head and heart of gold, she makes me believe that I am more than my past. More than what I think others think of me. I’m more than an arrogant scalpel jockey.

I am worthy. I am capable. I am loved.

So I don’t hold Casey’s hand.

Because I’m not perfect.

And that’s okay.


End file.
